


Omega

by transportive



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Last of The Jedi Series - Jude Watson, Star Wars Legends: Rebel Force Series - Alex Wheeler
Genre: Abuse, Brainwashing, Everything is awful, Gen, Minor Character Death, Sorry Not Sorry, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9340475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transportive/pseuds/transportive
Summary: So begin Trever Flume's darkest, and final, days. What comes out of the other side of this ordeal is no longer Trever--and, arguably, no longer human.





	

It was the sudden bright light that snapped Trever into awareness.

Just as soon as he came back to consciousness, though, he had to wonder at how he had managed to remain out cold with the way his entire body felt like it was on fire. Pain, awful pain, wracked him and made it nearly impossible to try and figure out where he was or what had happened.

As he fought to become cognizant of his surroundings, Trever noticed a few bizarre details. The room was stark white and chrome, making the newly lit globes above him stand out even more. More alarmingly, he had been stripped naked and was strapped to a table in the centre of that room.

A man stood above him.

“You’re awake,” the man said once Trever finally looked at him and recognized his presence. “Know this: this is the last time you will not give me your full attention. You belong to me now.”

 _Right_ , Trever wanted to shoot back, but found he couldn’t. The man smiled as if he had heard it anyway.

“And no speaking unless I’ve asked you a direct question.

“You’re a latecomer to this project, I’m afraid; your friends have already started their training. We’re going to have to work hard to catch you up.”

Trever quickly decided this was clearly insane. Anxiety welled up in his chest. He strained against the straps holding him down but he found the restraints gave little. He was too weak.

The man laughed.

“No need to fight. We have you drugged too much for you to get away. I understand this must be concerning. But don’t worry—all your fears will soon be gone. We’re going to wipe you clean of everything that troubles you. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Trever wanted to protest. To tell this man _go kriff yourself_. To say or do anything. He would have taken screaming at the top of his lungs at that point. Just screaming pointlessly just to make a sound.

The man pressed a button on the side of a machine next to Trever, and he finally noticed the IV in his arm. A faintly blue liquid flowed from the machine into his vein.

He quickly lost consciousness.

 

* * *

 

When Trever came to again, he was in a dark room; a completely stark contrast to the blinding light he remembered from just before. He hadn’t dreamed.

He could feel something on his wrists and he tugged his arms. They were still weak, but there was just enough give to tell that he couldn’t move much anyway. Binders, presumably chaining him to a wall or something.

He was still naked; he could tell from the cold floor. He shivered.

He sat there in the dark long enough that things began to come back to him.

Trever remembered… a mission. Watching Clive and Astri—his adoptive parents—go for the factory. Waiting with Lune, his little brother. Watching with the electrobinocs. Realizing that something was wrong. Stormtroopers.

Sneaking toward the factory, leaving Lune behind to wait.

“I’ll be back.”

Watching first Astri go down, then Clive.

Trying to get the explosive charges into the munitions factory. Thinking that if he had to die with his parents, at least he could do one last brave act.

The familiar whine of TIE fighters above. Then another familiar sound: concussive missiles.

Then the white room.

Trever retched once, twice, trying to heave forward so that if he threw up he would at least make it onto the floor. The binders stopped him from moving forward enough.

He lost track of the hours, but he stayed in that room for what felt like days.

 

* * *

 

Though they brought him food in the interim, when Trever was finally let out it was for a simple meal.

As soon as both arms were freed he lunged at the guard who had freed him, swinging a fist at his face.

The scuffle was nasty but short, and Trever’s hands were quickly re-bound in front of him with stun cuffs after a severe beating from the guard.

After forcing his legs into a pair of pants made from rough fabric, he was all but dragged to the meal room. Six other humans already sat there, on either side of a long table, two rows of three. Several of them also had bruises and marks. All of them looked exhausted.

Other than that, there were few things in common. The only woman in the group looked more alert than most of the others, and she studied Trever with marked calculation; he recognized that sort of look. Three of the men looked just empty—already worn out from fighting, Trever supposed. The other two shifted nervously, nervous of Trever’s arrival until they must have seen he was like them: worn and battered, stained with his own vomit and unkempt.

He also noticed that all of them had had their heads shaved, and he suddenly realized his own must have been too. It explained the itching in his scalp. They also each had something attached at their temples. It looked painful but, assuming he had the same, he supposed it couldn’t have been.

The guards forced Trever to sit down beside the woman, who stopped looking at him immediately. Trever was grateful. He didn’t want to be stared at. He just wanted to figure out the best way to escape.

They were fed with a filling slop. None of them spoke the entire time, not daring under the watchful eye of the Imperial guards.

 

* * *

 

After that, Trever was back in darkness for stars knew how long, but this time they didn’t bind him to the wall. They released his wrists, watched him for a moment in the dim light from the hallway and, when he didn’t fight this time, they left without beating him further.

He supposed it was a reward. He could work with that.

 

* * *

 

The next time Trever was brought out of the room, it was to what he would come to realize was a training facility. There were targets set up—non-descript holos of various beings—and blasters on a table. A shooting range, simple enough.

The guards had escorted him in silence. What surprised Trever, however, was that the man from before was there—the man who he assumed was running the show, and the only one to have spoken to him since he woke up in that strange room. What surprised Trever more was that the guards left them there alone, leaving Trever and the man behind.

Trever didn’t hesitate: he lunged for the nearest blaster, turned, and aimed it at the man. He pulled the trigger—

And nothing.

The man started laughing, and at the same time Trever felt a pressure on his skull—the attachments on the others? He wondered for only a split second before a horrible, awful pain shot straight through him, starting at his temples and down throughout his body.

He screamed loud enough that he couldn’t hear the man laughing anymore.

Dropping the unarmed blaster on the floor, Trever’s hands clawed at the pressure at his temples, trying to make the pain to go away. His knees buckled and he felt to the ground as the screams died on his lips.

The man, no longer laughing but still smiling, walked over to him to stand over him.

“Congratulations, X-7,” the man said with what Trever could only describe as _pride_. “You’ve passed your first test.”


End file.
